324
A DARK MONTH.
Head that the hand
Of a god might have blest,
Laid lustrous and bland
On the curve of its crest:
Mouth sweeter than cherries
Keen eyes as of Mars
Browner than berries
And brighter than stars.
Nor colour nor wordy
Weak song can declare
The stature how sturdy,
How stalwart his air.
As a king in his bright
Presence-chamber may be,
So seems he in height—
Twice higher than your knee.
As a warrior sedate
With reserve of his power,
So seems he in state—
As tall as a flower:
As a rose overtowering
The ranks of the rest
That beneath it lie cowering,
Less bright than their best
